


Scrabble Tiles and Earl Grey

by LadyCharity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Making peace, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCharity/pseuds/LadyCharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I trust you with my death, Molly Hooper."</p><p>In which an unexpected friendship is struck in the midst of all this death and dying, between the life-and-death career choice and the hospital morgue, but life carries on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrabble Tiles and Earl Grey

**Author's Note:**

> I should have proofread this. I know i should have. But I wrote this for two evening straight, it's 2:20am where I am, it has already been a long two days, and this work is literally 36 pages long. I apologise for not proofreading, but I can legitimately say that at least you can see my heart thrown out uncensored onto the pages even if there are spelling or grammatical errors. Inspired by Bondlock AUs, moved by life. Enjoy.

Molly Hooper knew the process of embalmment in the way that a person knew how to make a decent cup of Earl Grey. After all, both had to deal with fluids, with precise timing and measurement, and not forgetting to be careful else a tongue will be burned, though whose tongue exactly was one differing point. And both dealt with a daily necessity.

Really, with the population of London, it was a surprise that there weren’t as many as thirty a day.

You aren’t the only embalmer in all of London, Q had said to her once. And with eyebrows raised in humour, he added, but perhaps the best.

Just a lot of practise, she said. She probably ought not to have smiled, though.

Her hands were quick. She moved silently. Some that she knew would blast Absolute Radio to the fullest volume while they worked, as if they were in a karaoke bar while they swapped a body’s blood for formaldehyde. Otherwise, they’d say, it would be “silent as the grave,” and they would share a knowing chuckle before washing their hands of preserving chemicals before lunch. But she never liked working with music in her ear buds, even if that meant only hearing the clinking of metal instruments on the tray and the drone of the tank pumping embalming fluids through an incision on the side of the neck. She didn’t want to risk making her hand jump unexpectedly when she was injecting chemicals through a syringe. Art demanded it.

“Sorry, sorry!” Molly said to the body when she bumped her hip against the edge of the steel table that it lay on. It upset the tray next to her and several of the contents fell; she cringed as they clattered. Her hip smarted, and she could only imagine what a sore back and shoulders someone would get if they slept on this all night. At least those who have to never needed to wake up. “Oh dear. It’s not terribly comfortable, is it? Morgues don't have a four star rating in accommodations, I’m afraid.”

She usually didn’t talk to the bodies. But this was not the first, and she knew it would not be the last.

The body was cold. No longer stiff, after tirelessly massaging the limbs to break down the rigor mortis. Some people didn’t realize just how very frozen a dead body can be a mere several hours upon dying. Life frozen in time, unable to move forward. It was fittingly symbolic for an insufferably pragmatic world.

Molly picked up the tools that fell to the floor. One of them was a syringe—used to inject embalming fluids where arterial embalming could not reach. It was a long needle; if it hurt to the touch, the body did not object. Q always cringed at the sight of the syringes—how is that even humane, he said about them. It doesn’t have to be, Molly would tell him. They aren’t terribly human anymore, the bodies.

So, Q had replied. Are humans a physical fact or a temporary state of being? And Molly could only laugh softly and say, when in St. Bart’s, the latter.

Like making a cup of Earl Grey. Didn’t matter in what mug, at what time of the day, how many cups, with milk and sugar or black. It should all be the same, and done with the same detached casualness. It needed to be.

First: Bring the water to a boil, but don’t overdo it. Pour the water into the mug—teabag or loose-leaf, doesn’t matter. It gets the job done.

She smoothed the crisply clean white sheet over the body, her hand grazing the sunken chest. Her hands reached down the slim hips, past the delicate sides and up the edge of the ribcage, as if to tuck a person into bed at night.

“Sorry,” Molly said, her lips barely moving. Her hands moved under the body’s arms. “This must tickle, doesn’t it?”

And she couldn’t resist but press down a little, feel if there were any highly defined abdominal muscles. Q would have chuckled at her curiosity, if he wasn’t the one that was dead.

Second: Two and a half to three minutes if using teabags. Five minutes if loose-leaf. This will release the flavour fully. Add milk accordingly. The type of cup doesn’t matter.

* * *

 

(“First rules of Scrabble,” Q said, “is that everyone playing draws seven tiles. Each tile has a letter on it, of course, and each letter has a point value. A’s are used most frequently, so of course, they have fewer points.”

“And which has the most points?” Molly said.

His lips curled into a prim smile.

“Q,” he said. “With ten points.”

“Is that why you like this game so much?”

“Now, now,” he said. His voice was light, like mist. Soon to fade in time. “My ego isn’t that insufferable.”)

* * *

 

Since a mortuary was the last place Molly last saw Q, it was only fitting that it was also the first.

Mycroft must have recommended her, being basically the entirety of the House of Commons, the House of Lords, the PM, and at this rate the crown itself that he would hold any sort of sway over MI6 and their dealings. She asked little questions when, as she locked up the lab for the day and was heading toward the Barbican tube station, a black car pulled up right in front of St. Bartholomew’s. After dealing with Sherlock casually demanding dismembered limbs and fresh organs, Molly learned to figure things out as she went along when it came to the Holmes brothers.

“This must be utterly confidential,” Mycroft briefed her from the passenger seat. “The security of this organisation will be compromised if you let slip anything of what you are about to see.”

“Yes, sir,” Molly said, because there was little else one can respond with to that. She was sweating in her scarf; Mycroft was entirely different in his level of intimidation than Sherlock; Sherlock could humiliate her, perhaps, but Mycroft could legally deport her.

“MI6 deals with a wide array of—rather—pet projects, so to speak,” said Mycroft. The car was riding down a tunnel; she could feel the slope as she pressed against her seatbelt. “I take it a little bit of a blood and bone won’t be of much consequence to you, considering your profession.”

“I—no, sir,” Molly said.

She looked down at her hands that bunched up the ends of her overlong jacket. She was used to secrets—it must be a reoccurring trait among the Holmes gene pool, at the very least—but it was the half-secrets that made her cringe. When she knew just enough to not be ignorant, but not nearly enough to feel safe and sure of herself.

By the time the car stopped in what felt like an underground car park, she was ushered by a gang of sharply suited men (“Agents,” Mycroft addressed them) through fluorescent corridors and past metal doors. Some that were left ajar she barely caught a glimpse into. Sometimes she saw exercise equipment in the rooms. Others, loud gunshots rang out. Another, someone saw her trying to look inside and promptly shut the door before she could try.

The only room that opened its doors to her was a sterile and blinding lab. The chemicals and equipment were wide and versatile, lining the shelves like the soldiers that used them, if this MI6 that Mycroft was so aware of was relatively comparable to the military. When she stepped foot into the lab, Molly couldn’t help but envy the utter neatness and order of the lab; she had approximately endless patience for Sherlock in most situations, but he never cleaned up after himself when he borrowed her working space. Here, it looked like the whole room would utterly shatter if she even moved a scalpel out of its place.

“Over here,” said Mycroft.

One metal bed was occupied by a covered figure. Molly glanced up at Mycroft, who gestured permission for her to approach it. She tugged off her scarf as she edged closer, eyes darting from Mycroft to the clothed body.

“Female, age thirty-two, killed in action approximately thirteen hours ago,” said Mycroft. “You needn’t know why.”

Molly didn’t need Mycroft to tell her. If anything, she wasn’t an amateur when it came to dealing with the dead. She may not be Sherlock, but she could deduce a thing or two on her own.

“Before her death, she and her family had expressed the unusual desire for an open casket funeral. Perhaps as a sign of good will to a family left in the dark,” Mycroft said. He said this in a tone that expressed the ridiculousness of such a notion—good will, life’s greatest lie. “Unfortunately, the cause of her death has rendered that difficult.”

“Okay,” Molly said, wetting her lips. She thought that she might still smell the blood that dried on the body.

“Normally, we would adhere to typical habit of a closed casket, but one will always find a little more obligation to the dead than the living.” Mycroft studied Molly carefully.  “My brother says you are impressive in making the dead look alive. And the alive look less than their best.”

“I—” Molly bit her lip. “Well, Sherlock had me fake his suicide. So I suppose I can make a person look quite dead.”

“I am aware,” Mycroft said. His smile was ironic. “It nearly fooled me.”

His voice was crisp. Molly swallowed hard and hoped that he wasn’t angry at her for it. Goodness knew that John was a touch frosty when he found out that she was in on Sherlock’s game for the two years that he was left in the dark.

“So this shouldn’t be an issue,” he said.

He pulled away the cloth. Molly tried not to cringe. It was impolite to flinch, but if she could deduce anything about the cause of death on anything, she could willingly bet that gasoline fire was involved.

“You will be reimbursed duly,” Mycroft said. He handed her a packet of photographs. “What she looked like when she was alive, provided by her family. Do the best you can.”

“This—” Molly swallowed hard. She could taste the burnt flesh through her nose. “—it’s not terribly legal, is it?”

Mycroft smiled dangerously. Molly felt her skin burn. She thought her own blush might eat her skin away just as it did for the dead body on the metal bed.

 “As a note to consider, Ms. Hooper,” said Mycroft. “This agent’s children will be attending the funeral. Please try not to inflict any horrific nightmares on several eight-year-olds, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Molly sucked in a sharp breath. Mycroft nodded politely to her before turning away toward the door to leave. The agents that escorted her here stood at each side of the door like carved statues of seraphim that guard cathedrals.

“What was her name?” said Molly.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder.

“Is that going to help you graft skin?” said Mycroft. Molly’s shoulders hunched. “As soon as possible, Ms. Hooper. The body will decompose more quickly than normal under these circumstances, if you will.”

He left the lab with a resonating bang of the heavy door. The agents that guarded the entrance barely flinched, even when Molly jumped a meter at the sudden sound. She pressed her arms tightly at her side as if to shield herself, staring at the body on the table and remembering not to flinch, even though the dead woman could hardly be reproached at this point.

She took a step closer. Most of the blood was clumsily mopped off, but not the stains near the frayed flesh or between the legs.

She looked down at the glossy photographs in her hand. The woman was handsome in life, with a strong jaw and elegant almond-shape eyes. It was a pity that half her face might as well be missing. She pressed her lips together—she didn’t know if she could do the woman exact justice. At best, her family would only barely recognize her; they’d recognize her much better if they kept a closed casket.

“She was agent 0010,” said a voice. “For a solid six years, so I’m told.”

Molly dropped the photographs. They scattered across the floor like leaves blown from branches in autumn. She held her breath, turning around sharply toward the source of the sound. How she didn’t earlier notice the presence of another person aside from the guards, she was too ashamed to know for herself.

“I—” Molly blinked before shaking her head as if she just snapped out of a daydream. “I’m sorry, were you here earlier?”

The stranger smiled slightly. His eyes were large, and behind large spectacles, which made him look like a glassy-eyed doll, barely avoiding being swept behind dark curls. He was standing by the counter with a laptop propped open and ready for him, but his eyes were on the body instead. Molly swallowed hard.

“Never mind,” she said, turning back to the body.

Agent 0010. It made her think of barcodes labelling an apple or a slab of salmon at a local Tesco’s, to be scanned and checked out, time to move on. She frowned before turning back to the young man in the same room, who had turned back to his laptop and was tapping away wordlessly. His fingers flew across the keyboard as if he was playing a concerto.

“Er,” she said. “Excuse me.”

He didn’t react. Normally Molly would flake off after this and mull in the silence, but instead she cleared her throat a little more loudly.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Did you know her?”

The young man looked up as if he had just heard his name in the crowd. He dithered to answer, his fingers still poised over the keys.

“I was assigned to her as her quartermaster,” he said. “A number of times.”

Tap, tap. His fingers were flying again. Molly bent down to collect the photographs off the ground, careful not to accidentally fold them. Agent 0010 had a wide smile. Molly didn’t think her adhesives could pull that off anywhere near the perfection that the photograph captured in frozen time.

“What’s her name?” said Molly.

“Hm?” The typing paused.

“Her name?”

“Oh.” The young man looked ahead of him, toward the cabinets. “I tend not to know the legal names of the agents I work with. It gets in the way.”

“Oh,” said Molly.

She hardly knew what a quartermaster even did. Or what he was doing in the lab. He certainly didn’t seem like a lab worker, lent to her to assist in embalming. Otherwise he would be here, handing her a scalpel, not on the laptop.

“Sorry,” Molly said. “But what are you doing here?”

The young man looked at her. She back-pedaled immediately.

“I mean,” she said, “not that I don’t like it with you here. I don’t mind. I just think it odd. You’re not a morgue worker, are you?”

“Astute,” he said. “Like I said before, I’m a quartermaster. I work with MI6’s technology.”

“Right,” said Molly. “In this lab?”

“I’m flexible,” he said.

Molly pulled on the protective body suit that MI6 had left her. It was far too big for her; it bagged at her elbows and she felt as if she had a hand too big for tiny bones. She could hardly tell where to start—besides embalming, she needed to suture the flesh together to look somewhat intact.

“Do you like working in a lab, then?” said Molly. “I do. It’s quiet, but you don’t really feel lonely, because there’s usually someone there with you. I mean, that person is usually dead, but—I mean, not that dead are _company_ , but they _feel_ like company, and—”

“I do not,” said the stranger.

Molly closed her mouth. The next hour or so passed in silence—relatively, as Molly worked on the body and as the young man’s fingers tap-danced on the keys. She still couldn’t place her finger on why he bothered to work here. There was nowhere to sit, no coffeemaker to resort to during the long stretches. But he stayed nonetheless, and she found his typing far from bothersome.

“I’m Molly,” she said, breaking the silence as she was stretching grafted skin over the dead woman’s burns. “Molly Hooper.”

“You needn’t try to strike up small talk,” he said. He didn’t look up from the screen. “I’m not bored.”

“Oh,” she said. She laughed nervously. “All right. I was just—I don’t know why I feel the need to fill the silence. Most of my fr—most people I know don’t really care for small talk either. I really don’t know why I feel the need to. I just feel odd if I don’t.”

“I can leave if I am distracting you,” he said.

“No, no,” she said quickly. “No, you aren’t a bother at all. You’re good company—I like your company. It’s a relief after usually being around dead people.”

He quirked an eyebrow. Her face burned and she stared intently at the crumbling flesh she was trying to cover over as if it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

“Glad to know I’m a smudge livelier than a dead body,” he said.

She risked a smile. “More than a smudge.”

He raised his eyes to her.

“Q,” he said.

“Sorry?” she said.

“Call me Q,” he said. “Quartermaster of MI6.”

“Is that really your name?” she said.

“Of course not,” he said.

“Then, what really is your name?”

“You aren’t in the position to know that.”

Molly nodded, the back of her neck burning. She smoothed down the patched skin over the dead woman’s face, as if she was merely darning socks. It was basically crafting a doll, more craft than preservation. Q raised his head a little as if to get a better look.

“Have you done this many times before?” said Q.

“I don’t know if Mycroft would let me come here if I didn’t,” said Molly. “I mean—yes. Yes I have. Quite a couple times. More than one would expect. Most of the time we keep bodies in a refrigerator or with dry ice to preserve it, but sometimes there’s a person who gets embalmed, so—oh, you probably don’t want to talk about things like this, do you? I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” said Q. “You’re quite all right. I’m just curious.”

Silence. Typically, Molly would have to have Q put on protective clothing as well, being near formaldehyde, but he kept his distance enough.  

“Quite the career,” said Q. “Why this of all professions?”

“I guess,” said Molly, “because there’s never going to be a shortage of dead people. Job security and all.”

A pause, before Q chuckled. Strangely, the sound was relieving.

“She died in an explosion, didn’t she?” Molly said.

Q’s light smile fell.

“Is that a question or a rhetorical statement?” he said.

“Did she?” said Molly.

She just noticed how when Q’s eyes fell on agent 0010’s body, it would only linger for a second at most before darting quickly elsewhere. Maybe he was squeamish, which didn’t explain why he as here at all.

“Classified information, Molly Hooper,” said Q. “I think Mycroft would have already briefed you on that.”

“But then, she would be on duty, wouldn’t she?” said Molly. “Doing what—what agents do. Protecting the country, right? Playing spy, taking down the enemy…for Queen and Country?”

“On duty,” said Q. “It was very unfortunate. Completely avoidable. Misjudgement at its finest.”

“Was it?” said Molly. “How do you know?”

“Because I was the one leading her through it,” Q said. “To the very end.”

His voice was so light when he said it. She would have thought he was speaking of dreams or sleep, with that lilt in his voice, not the death of an agent under his responsibility. Her heart sank—she didn’t know why. Agent 0010—nameless—was dead regardless, and the guilt was not on her. But it was on Q, and she could see that easily now, with the way he lingered close to the body as if that could pay some sort of homage, to pay some last respects to a body that couldn’t care less. It felt like something Sherlock would do—risking himself to have sentiment, but not entirely sure how.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No need,” Q said. “Anyway—a sure sign that I have much room to improve.”

His typing was sharp, like gunshots in the midst of the thick silence settling it. Molly watched Q a little longer. He didn’t even look like he was a day past twenty-five. She vaguely wondered if it was like in the secret agent films, with Bluetooths and guns, with running for one’s life and trying to skirt death by an inch. Maybe he heard the entire thing—the explosion, if that was it, the scream, and then the silence. Or maybe he was waiting by his station for the outcome, expecting success and safety, only for the agent to never report back.

“Were you close to her?” said Molly.

“Sentiment is not part of my position description,” said Q. “You’d understand, wouldn’t you? You’re surrounded by the dead every day.”

“I do,” Molly said. “I am. But you’re not.”

Q paused in his typing. He pushed the laptop away.

“I might as well be,” said Q. “Death is expected in this line of work. We are to trust our colleagues with our lives, but also realize that if the situation demanded it they must be willing to kill us in less than a heartbeat for the greater good. We’re all dead people—we’re just waiting to die.”

“But,” said Molly, “you’ve been here this whole time with her body, and you don’t need to be.”

Q said nothing. A small smile flickered on his lips.

“I still have much to learn, then,” he said. “Are you embalming her now?”

“I’m about to,” said Molly.

“What’s it like, to embalm a dead body? I’ve only ever caused them.”

He said it so casually that Molly could see right through it. But she didn’t comment on it.

“It’s considered an art, really,” said Molly. “It’s a process. It’s like preparing dinner. Oh God—not like that—” Q raised his eyebrows at that. Her tongue felt suddenly too big for her mouth, clumsily getting in the way of her throat and teeth. “I mean—you just have a step-by-step process. Sometimes you do something differently—use a syringe, or maybe you have to put a brighter shade of lipstick on them—but it’s basically the same process. I don’t even think about the difference between dead and alive when I do it. It’s like making tea.”

“Not my cup of tea,” said Q.

“Not many,” said Molly.

But Q watched her hands intently as she moved about the body, making incisions, draining the fluids. He watched not the fluids seep out from the cuts, but the way Molly moved fluidly herself, as if she could do this in her sleep (and maybe she could). Molly suddenly felt too big for this room altogether, and any mistake she would make would be magnified tenfold.

He moved closer—or at least, he moved at all. He orbited the table, still keeping a ten meter distance between him and Agent 0010. But above all, he moved closer to Molly.

“Tell me about it,” he said. “Tell me how it’s done.”

“You—you really want to know?” Molly said. Most people would be disgusted to know, or to even ponder on it. “Are you—would you be okay with me telling?”

“I don’t see why not,” Q said. “It’s an art, after all.”

Molly blushed. She desperately hoped that her hands wouldn’t shake uncontrollably now that she had an audience. She cleared her throat, then cleared it again.

“Well,” she said. Her voice shook. She didn’t know if she was excited about being listened to, or nervous about being listened to. “The first step, you see, is to strip the body of clothing. The body would be in full rigor mortis at this stage—you know, frozen stiff—and that’s difficult to work with. You have to massage and flex the limbs to alleviate this natural process. Keep the eyes closed using an eye cap and fix the mouth shut. Needle and ligature or adhesives will do the trick.”

He listened intently. She spoke more quickly, as if this was her passion. Maybe it was—preserving the dead, preserving a memory just a little longer than nature originally intended. Bu she knew something through and through, and someone wanted to know more. It made the words spill out of her mouth.

“And next—” she said. Her hands moved swiftly, smoothly, like a choreographed dance. The last drops of fluid were draining—and then snip, snip, more incisions, more spillage, like a purge, a cleansing. “—is arterial embalming. That’s when embalming chemicals are injected into the blood vessels, usually via the right common carotid artery. Blood and intestinal fluids are ejected via the right jugular vein. Then you move on to the cavities, then tough spots. A syringe will do the trick for those places that the veins didn’t really reach.”

It was like she was sculpting something with her bare hands, except she was turning a dead body into an artefact. A cruel fact of life to a memorable symbol in death. Soon she would forget that she asked for Agent 0010’s name, because wherever or whoever Agent 0010 was, it wasn’t in this body. Death became irrelevant when it came to this body.

“Then you embalm the surface,” said Molly. “That’s what I’ll be doing about the—burns. That will take the longest, I’m sure, but I can move quickly. Once that’s done, there’s grooming, to prepare for the funeral, if for some reason they had consented to an open casket funeral when they were alive, and—”

Q wouldn’t stop listening. He looked utterly awestruck.

“Like a cup of Earl Grey,” Q murmured.

* * *

 

(“The person who has a letter closest to A starts,” Q had said. “With the seven letters that they have in their collection, they must spell out a word.”

“Any kind of word?”

“Well, that’s too charitable. All in one language, preferably. But no nouns, no prefixes or suffixes. No words that have any sort of hyphen or apostrophe in them.”

“Like which words?”

“Like—let’s see—eye-catching. There’s a hyphen between ‘eye’ and ‘catching.’”

“Not hors d’oeuvres?”

“Not that either. Besides, that’s French.”

“But English has practically claimed it as its own.”

“Cheeky girl!”)

* * *

 

Q talked with her through the whole process, and even afterward, which was a pleasant surprise to Molly at all. Mycroft brought her to MI6 frequently; while not everyone lost among the agents gave consent to embalming, there was certainly no shortage of dead people, and apparently she was the few that Mycroft knew that had the faintest expertise in death.

She and Q spoke frequently on the days that she came to MI6; he learned about her two cats, her sisters,  her long haul through specialty registrar, how she took the Hammersmith & City line to get to work every day, and that scarf she always wore was from her grandmother. She learned about his charged opinion about the Metro papers, his guilty pleasure of Worcestershire sauce-flavoured crisps, and his predilection for indie musicians. He still remained silent about topics of his family, his age or name, what exactly he did as a quartermaster, but Molly didn’t mind. It was a change to learn more about a person than their biographical information, which she was usually the only thing she ever knew of a person, especially when they were lying stone dead in a basement.

But no matter where their soft conversations went, which skimmed the surface and never dared to let the water come over its head, Q always would somehow veer it back to death. His questions were like a three-year-old in a museum. If not embalming, what else do people do once they die? Are cadavers really kept at all times in a hospital for science purposes? If a person died, how long until they start decomposing? Until Molly had to remind him (gently, with much stuttering in fear that she would insult him) that she didn’t work at a funeral home, and her field of work was aiming toward dealing with alive people more so than dead.

“Why do people choose to be embalmed, anyway?” said Q.

“It’s—well, it’s considered an art, in a way,” Molly said. “A last—sort of physical—picture of the person before goodbye. Like an art piece. It’s almost symbolizing them since it isn’t—actually—them.”

They were both taking lunch at a nearby Pret a Manger, unwrapping their triangular sandwiches from the cardboard boxes. When Q had asked her to accompany him, she couldn’t help but feel a layer of wariness under the pleasure of being asked—more often than not, if people cared for her company at all, it was to use her equipment.

“Does it actually help the farewells?” Q said.

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “I suppose it depends on the person. I guess—I suppose, if you haven’t seen the person when they died, and you never see a body, maybe it is harder. To accept that they’re dead. Because if the casket’s closed, for all you know, they could easily not be there at all and it’s all a ruse. They could be wearing a clown suit to be buried and you couldn’t tell because you never see it. Oh—ignore me, that was rude of me. Of course no one would be buried in a clown suit.”

He cracked a smile. “It would at least lighten the dismal mood, if anything.”

“No one would want to be buried in a clown suit, who would want that?”

“True—frankly, clowns are even more horrifying than a dead body to me.”

“They are! If there was those—what do they call them—a zombie uprising or apocalypse, I’d be more frightened at the fact that a man in a clown suit is chasing me than if a zombie was coming for me.”

Q laughed. It was comforting to listen to.

“In that case,” Q said, “bury me in a bunny suit. Goodness knows people would need a laugh at any funeral.”

Molly tried to imagine an ornate, flower-laden casket with a body in a fluffy pink bunny suit kept inside. She nearly choked on her water.

“Would you prefer embalmment, if you had to think about your own death?” Q asked her. “Or take it the natural way?”

They were strange questions—honest, but strange to ask someone he had met not too long ago. Molly couldn’t say she minded terribly—between Sherlock, who for the longest time talked to her only out of his own gain and necessity, and Jim, whom she ultimately found out only talked to her out of his own gain and necessity, Q was something of a new surprise because he was curious.

“I’m not sure,” Molly said. Every now and then a middle-aged woman would cast a wary glance in their direction; she didn’t seem very comfortable in her choice of seating when Molly and Q were talking about decomposition rates of bodies. “I can’t say it would matter to me. I mean—I’m not exactly going to be aware of it when it _does_ happen.”

“I suppose,” said Q, “it would matter more to your family.”

“Then natural, I suppose,” Molly said. “They wouldn’t want to view me afterward. It wouldn’t work out.”

“Work out?” Q said.

Molly nodded. “My dad—he was all right with embalmment, and Mum decided to let him be out for viewing, but—well, it wasn’t exactly—it didn’t quite make it. He looked like he was moulded with crayons.”

Molly still remembered being thirteen and scarred for life when she peered into her father’s open casket. She wasn’t entirely sure even now how badly one could mess up embalmment as badly as they did to her father’s. His eyes had deflated completely and apparently the cotton under the eyelids sank in as well, the adhesive to the mouth was blatant, and in the summer heat in which he died he looked like a melting wax candle. Her mum sobbed with even more anguish than she probably would have if they had only snapped the lid over the casket earlier, and her older sister bitterly commented that if she wanted to see wax figures she would just buy a ticket to Madame Tussaud’s.

“I’m sorry,” Q said.

“No, don’t be,” Molly said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. That’s—well—I’m sorry if you’ve lost your appetite.”

“Oh, I’m quite all right,” Q said. “I don’t know if our neighbours would agree, though.”

Molly stole a sidelong glance at the woman sitting at the stools nearby. She was frantically stuffing her half-eaten sandwich into the paper bag with a napkin over her mouth, as if she was running away from a plague. Molly’s face burned and she turned quickly back to Q, only to be confronted with his laugh.

“Clearly we had an eavesdropper,” he said. “At least I know what tactics I’d have to follow if I wanted my privacy.”

She couldn’t help but crack a smile in return.

“What about you?” she said. “Does it make a difference to you?”

Q licked his lips in thought. He was not one to play with his hands as he was silent, as Molly would; he sat properly still, in a way that demanded some precise attention. The way that his eyes glinted as if thoughts like shooting stars darted behind them, and the way his jaw would set wordlessly, made her frustratingly curious, because she knew waves of thoughts were streaming through his mind, but there was some sort of dam between his mind and his mouth because his answers were so carefully crafted that she knew she only got a sliver of what he was truly thinking.

“Embalmment never did sit well with me,” said Q. “It’s like turning a body less like a body and more like a project. How much of it is true?”

“Of what is true?”

“Of what remains. It’s like those historical houses—the one Keats lived in up in Hampstead, or especially where Shakespeare was born in raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. Of course there must have had to be restoration. Repair and refurbishment. It’s from as early as the sixteenth century, after all. Practically five hundred years ago. How much of that house, which tourists flock to by the millions, is _actually_ what Shakespeare once lived in, after five centuries of wood decomposing and needing replacement, of walls broken down to add electricity when it became a source of income, floors varnished and replica of furniture moved inside the rooms? By now, it’s perhaps entirely rebuilt, but we call it the original, anyway, even though perhaps the only thing shared is the plot of land under its foundations.”

“Well,” Molly said, biting her lip. “I suppose the—usually the flesh and the bones are still there.”

“All right, I’ve exaggerated,” said Q. “I was too passionate about the simile, I suppose.”

“Are you afraid of death?” Molly said.

Q raised his eyebrows. The question fell from her lips before she could stop herself, and now that she said it loud enough for herself and for Q to hear, she realized just how unfittingly blunt she was.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just—you seem so—fascinated. By it. But not fascinated, because you stayed the whole time with the body that one time. Agent 0010’s. You were curious, but that wasn’t why you did it. You did it because you were on a mission with her, and then she died.”

Guilt.

“Merely disappointment in my misjudgement,” said Q. “It’s something we all must accept and move on to our next line of duty. There is no time for sentiment.”

“Was she your friend?” said Molly.

“We can’t afford friends,” said Q. “It’s not exactly recommended. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Molly said. She thought of Sherlock, and John, and the few whom she could vaguely convince herself tolerated her. Couldn’t be bothered by friendship, they said. Too dangerous. Not economic. Et cetera. “I do. I just think you were very—concerned. About her, even after she died.”

Q’s lips parted. He was silent for a moment, a moment long enough for Molly to realize that this was not what people usually wanted to talk about over lunch. If he decided right then and there he was never going to seek a conversation with her again, she wouldn’t be surprised, albeit crestfallen.

Then, he gave her a flicker of a smile.

“I’m quite surrounded by a strange amalgam of life and death in my work, Molly Hooper,” he said. “I can’t help but ask questions. Didn’t you feel the same as you started off?”

“I don’t—I suppose,” said Molly. “Just a different kind of curious.”

“How so?”

Molly shrugged. “I mean—I suppose—don’t get me wrong, but I thought more about life after death, if that was real or not. Not so much—I’m not saying you are strange in wondering, but not so much what happens to the _body_.”

Q dipped his head in acknowledgment.

“To be fair,” he said, “your line of work answers those kinds of questions already.”

He leaned back in his chair, gazing out the window towards the busy streets, dwelling in thoughts that Molly couldn’t reach. Perhaps Molly shouldn’t be surprised of his wonder; she was around dead people more often than most in St. Bartholomew’s, but at that point it was very black and white—they were dead, vessels emptied of life, and she had to move quick before decomposition made itself blatantly known. Q was young, was freshly thrown into life. He was a trapeze artist that had to balance on that thin line between life and death, as his colleagues were thrown in dire situations and any choice made was a life-or-death situation. Death wasn’t as much of a fact as it was a risk. There still had that glimmer of ‘what-if.’

“Have you ever been to a funeral?” said Molly.

Q raised the cardboard cup of hot tea to his lips in lieu of answering. When she continued to stare at him, though, he cautiously relented.

“It is not within protocol to attend a colleague’s funeral,” said Q. “After all, the line of work itself is kept secret. No one outside of MI6 would be aware of any relations between agents, and it would be far too suspicious if someone whom no one else in the guest list knew arrived to pay respects.”

“Ah,” said Molly. 

He wrapped his fingers around his cardboard cup, the ends of the sleeves of his jacket just reaching his knuckles. He must be so young—perhaps he was afraid of death, or dying, or both, and it was easier to concern himself about the physical aspects of death—the biological breakdown and the rituals that followed—than the side of death that no one could truly know.

“Do you wonder what your funeral would look like?” said Q.

“Not—not really,” said Molly. That was a lie. “I try not to.”

Q nodded.

“Do you?”

“No. I have no plans of dying. Only, it’s a little ironic to me.”

“What is?”

“That when you’re the total centre of attention, you won’t even notice.”

Molly smiled wryly. “It’s like you don’t attend your own grand party.”

“If anything, at least it won’t inflate your ego.”

“If you’re truly dead,” said Molly. She never outright asked Sherlock if he attended his own funeral, but she doubted that he would pass the opportunity. “I would rather not have a funeral.”

“Why’s that?” said Q.

“It’s so much trouble. And terribly expensive.” Molly shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother even when I’m not—doing—anything.”

“There are worse hindrances,” said Q. He checked the time on his watch and cursed softly. “I should go back. I’m due to supervise someone on a mission in half an hour.”

He gathered his empty cardboard sandwich box and napkins to dispose in the rubbish bin. Molly itched, as if she was a bottle of lemonade shaken and fit to burst and the cap wasn’t enough to hold her back. Before he could exist through the propped open glass doors, she spilled.

“Coffee?” she said.

Q turned back toward her, his eyebrows raised.

“Sorry?” he said.

“I—forget it,” said Molly, hot blood rushing past her cheeks. “I was being silly.”

“No, coffee,” he said. She couldn’t tell if his lips were curled into a small smile, or if that was just how his lips naturally rested. “What about it?”

“I’d—maybe when you have a free hour again,” said Molly. She licked her lips nervously. “I thought—I mean, I like your company.”

Q didn’t say anything else at first. Molly held her breath; it was nothing like when she tried (and failed) to ask Sherlock for a moment in his day, when she was intoxicated and lost and full of self-hatred and affection for Sherlock. Now, it was just genuine care for this young man who warmed his hands on his coffee and asked questions to _know_.

A beat, and Q smiled. Really smiled.

“I would prefer tea,” he said.

* * *

 

(“First person uses the tiles they have to spell out a word, either going side to side or up and down.”

“No diagonal words?”

“No diagonal words. This isn’t noughts and crosses!”

“And what of the points?”

“Well, you add up the point value of all the letters used. And sometimes the tiles you put your word in will have special values. See this one—if you put a letter there as you’re spelling your word, that letter is worth double.”

“Writing _and_ maths!”

“I told you it wasn’t boring!”)

* * *

 

“When was the most afraid you’ve been?” Molly asked.

They were sitting on the benches by the lake at Regent’s Park. Molly had just come back from Baker Street when Sherlock demanded her presence to deliver him supplies so he could study the level of white blood cells congealing in various environments, since after the situation with the spleens he had been officially banned from St. Bartholomew’s.

She and Q were watching the ducks preening themselves at the edge of the lake, stretching their wide wings and ruffling their tail feathers. Both their sole ached from long days, and she could see the dark shadows of sleepless days behind his glasses. When she inquired of them, he said he had a thirty-eight hour mission to oversee, but couldn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to know anything else, she said. Only that he should rest.

You’re like the walking dead, she had said, and that’s coming from me. He laughed at this.

“That’s closing in on classified information,” said Q.

“Classified?” said Molly.

“Information that only MI6 should have access to,” said Q. “Otherwise security breach is possible. I cannot give any outside force any reason to compromise me and my confidentiality to the national security.”

Molly chuckled nervously, more out of disbelief than understanding.

“But,” she said, “this is about _you_. Just because MI6 is top secret and official doesn’t mean it owns you or your fears.”

Q opened his mouth, then closed it. Two joggers passed behind them, the sound of their trainers hitting the ground and their steadied, heavy breathing buying time for Q.

“But if I tell you, will you?” said Q.

Molly’s lips parted, perplexed. Q massaged the back of his long neck—there it was again, those rushing, rich thoughts that passed by silently, trying to remain unnoticed, but Molly was always around people who never spoke about what they truly felt. She saw through his hesitation too easily.

“To be fair,” said Q, “it probably _does_ relate to a moment in MI6 history, and still would be confidential. I wouldn’t expose MI6’s weakness.”

“Ah,” said Molly. Fair enough. “Did it have to do with a mission?”

“I’m not going to play twenty questions with you,” said Q.

“Was a friend in danger?”

Q turned to face her.

“You wouldn’t do well as an agent,” said Q. “You are a little too obvious in trying to find the answer.”

“It makes sense,” Molly said.

“I could have been afraid for my own life,” said Q. “I might be more self-preserving.”

“But quartermasters don’t go out in the field,” said Molly. “Do they?”

“You never know.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Molly. “Quartermasters are supposed to be protected. Aren’t they? It’s—isn’t it safer?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Q. “Every now and then a pen explodes in our hands.”

He said this with a casual smile. Molly didn’t fall for it.

“Did a friend of yours almost die?” she said.

Q’s smile was crooked. “You say that,” he said, “as if it doesn’t happen often.”

Molly couldn’t help but smile. When Q saw this, he tilted his head curiously.

“I—sorry,” Molly said. She hid her mouth behind her hand. “I just—it’s just—you didn’t correct me. When I said they were your friends. You didn’t correct me. You think they’re your friends, don’t you?”

Q knit his eyebrows. He looked as if he was shrinking away from her. Molly spoke up immediately, before he could shut his gates from her immediately out of wariness.

“I don’t—I’m not trying to—sorry,” said Molly. “I don’t mean to—to challenge you or anything. I just—you consider them friends, and that makes me—that’s all right. That makes me glad.”

“You, glad?” said Q. “Why on earth should that be of any concern?”

“It shouldn’t. It’s not my business,” said Molly. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just—I like that you have friends. I want you—to—have—friends.”

The more she heard herself speak the more bewildered she was at her own thinking process. He must think that she thought him massively unpopular and unsociable, when that was probably more applicable to her than to him. But instead of confused affront, he only laughed.

“Funny,” said Q. “My mum tends to feel the same.”

“I mean, of course you would have friends,” Molly said, scuffing her trainers on the ground. “You’re entirely likable.”

“You’re generous in your judgment,” said Q. “A sign, then, that you are more deserving of good friends than I am.”

Molly laughed out loud at this. Q watched her curiously.

“You disagree,” he said.

“I don’t—I mean,” said Molly, wiping her lips with the back of her sleeve. “That’s extremely kind of you.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Q. “I’m not an intrinsically kind person.”

“You’re kind to me,” said Molly.

“Well, you deserve it,” said Q. “That’s not being kind, that’s just being fair.”

Molly shook her head, still smiling in spite of herself.

“But am I right?” said Molly. “You don’t have to tell me what happened, or how, or who it was. Was that your most frightened moment? When someone you cared for—when they were almost lost?”

Q’s gaze flickered back to the willow trees that grazed the lake across from them. It was chilly, the breeze sometimes rustling the long strands of leaves to stir the waters.

“I was not responsible for their mission,” said Q. “Unfortunately.”

Molly nodded, biting her tongue to keep from interrupting him. If she did—if she breathed too loudly or gasped without warning, it might be enough to cut him off and he would sink into that unfathomable silence again.

“They fell into a coma,” said Q. “For quite a period, too. For a great while no one highly believed they would make it.”

“It must have been distressing,” Molly said softly.

Q nodded, still staring ahead. The way his long fingers still gripped at his sharp knees, she knew something still haunted him—something invisible and unspoken.

“You’ve asked me,” said Q, “if I was afraid of death.”

“Yes,” said Molly.

“I am,” said Q. “But not of my own death. I don’t think I have a qualm about that. It’ll happen, eventually. But I’m afraid. For the deaths of others. That they would be afraid and in pain in their last seconds. Most of the people I know, family or no—chances are, if they die, the last sight they’ll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes.”

Molly felt the sudden urge to touch his arm. She didn’t understand why, or what that could possibly communicate to him. Only that he was cracking himself open a little wider to her, and she wanted to touch his arm, and hoped that that was something that was all right for him.

“It’s foolish,” said Q. “I have no time to worry about that. I can only be concerned about how to help them avoid that as much as possible.”

“Are you afraid,” she said, “of what comes afterwards?”

Q furrowed his eyebrows.

“If there was nothing,” said Q, “then we wouldn’t know it, because we’d be nothing as well, and I doubt we’d be very aware. If there was something, then what is everyone so scared about?” He leaned back in the bench. “Do you think there’s something, on the other side?”

She thought of her father. Her stomach fell.

“I don’t know,” said Molly. She hung her head low. “I don’t know. I want to say there is, but that doesn’t make it true. It doesn’t make it false, but not _true_ either. I want it—for my dad—but I don’t know. He was so sad, so I don’t know. Oh damn—” She bit her tongue. “That’s just—you don’t want to hear it. I know. Sorry. I keep rambling.”

“Tell me,” said Q. “If you’d like. I’d like to hear.”

“You don’t have to lie,” said Molly. She was only making a fool of herself. Why should Q have to worry about what she thought or feared, what broke her heart and made her charged? “It’s okay, it doesn’t matter.”

“Molly,” said Q. “You’ve said this much already. It’d be a privilege to listen to you.”

Molly turned to him. Those were words too pretty for her, meant to goad her into doing something that someone wanted, or to lull her into some false security. She swallowed people’s lies so much she forgot what truth tasted like.

But she fell anyway, because someone said, speak. And she had been dying to listen.

“I just think about my dad,” she said. “He died—when I was thirteen. Stomach cancer. But…he smiled a lot, in his last days. Even when it was painful—unbearable—and he could barely speak, he would laugh a lot.”

As much as he could, even if it meant losing breath.

“And—at first, I thought it meant he was okay with death. That he wasn’t afraid, so neither should the rest of the family. And maybe, if he wasn’t afraid, then I didn’t have to be either. Maybe it meant there’s hope that he can—that I’ll see him again. That it’s not the end.”

Because who understood the truth about death more than the dying?

Q listened. He still kept his eyes on the willow tree, gaze locked on the drooping branches swaying back and forth, back and forth across the surface of the lake. Maybe he wasn’t even listening, but Molly talked anyway.

“Until, when everyone looked away, he just—he looked so sad,” said Molly. Her father, in his last days, looked like he aged the twenty years he would never see in a mere second.  Like he was going through the last stages of his life that cancer stole from him. “I just remember running out of the room, once, when I saw him putting down his guard—when he thought no one was looking. Everyone was trying to fix the television in his hospital room in the middle of the rugby world cup. It was malfunctioning so everyone was worrying over it to try to fix it and—I turned a little, and saw him when no one else was watching him. He looked so—sad.” 

And ‘sad’ was a simple word that couldn’t hold all the truth that really was. Her father looked defeated, let down, as if everyone had given up on him including himself.

“I ran out,” said Molly. And she sobbed in the hospital toilet, too, for maybe two hours until she splashed cold water on her face and went back to watch the rest of the match with her family as if nothing was amiss. “And—it hit me then. I lost that—that _lie_ , that dad was at peace, and was all right. And I lost that hope—I wouldn’t know for sure that there was anything left for him after this. I just didn’t know what to be okay with anymore. And I suppose now—now I still don’t.”

Now, she took bodies in, and kept them in carefully controlled conditions to keep them from decomposing too quickly. She mopped the blood off of ugly wounds or zipped them in body bags. And that made it real to her, death, that it was a natural process in the course of life, but she didn’t need to work in St. Bartholomew’s to figure that one out for herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was just—I didn’t have to say all that.”

“I mean,” said Q. “I had asked.”

“Yes, but,” said Molly. “That doesn’t mean I had to answer like that.”

“What’s the point of asking a question if you wouldn’t give a true answer?”

Molly said nothing. Q turned his head to her.

“It must have been difficult for you,” said Q.

“No more than anyone else,” said Molly.

“No less, either,” said Q.

Molly opened her mouth, then closed it. Q stood up from the bench, straightening his jacket. He reminded her of the willow he fixed his eyes on this entire time—long, swaying, skimming over the surface and rippling miles and miles beyond where he touched. Or at least, in Molly, he did.

“Death is a natural fact of life,” said Q. “Why is it that we fear what is inevitable?”

Molly pursed her lips before shrugging a shoulder.

“Because it’s inevitable?” she said.

Q gave a soft chuckle. He strode closer toward the lake. The ducks and pigeons that gathered by the water scattered immediately, the ducks taking to the water and the pigeons taking wing. It was like a reverse parting of the Red Sea, as the way cleared for him to approach the water.

“Look at that,” he said. “Do you see that?”

Molly stood from her seat and followed him.

“What?” she said.

“Over there, on that little island in the lake,” he said. “Where all the birds are, under the trees.”

Molly stood on her toes, even though there was nothing blocking her view of the small island in the middle of the lake where all the water fowl found sanctuary. A heron was craning its neck, stretching it toward the clouded sky. It spread its wings wide, spanning far as if it was trying to cup the whole island into its embrace.

“They say a cat crawls away and hides when it is about to die,” said Q. “And then there’s salmon, that leave their homes in the open sea to swim miles and miles to give birth to life.”

The heron shook its grand wings before it took off from the water. Molly stretched her neck to watch its flight, as it skimmed the underbellies of the clouds and vanished behind the trees, flying north or south, east or west, she couldn’t see from down here anymore.

“What do the birds do, anyway?” Q said.

Molly opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned sharply to Q, but he was already walking away along the lakeside.

* * *

 

(“The next player then has to use one or more of the letters of the word the last player spelt to make a new word with their own letters. See—I can spell ‘alias’ with my letters. Then you—what letters do you have?”

“X, W, O, M, B, I, H.”

“…Well, if you were dealt a better hand, you’d spell something else with A, L, I, or S. Where’s your beginner’s luck?”

“I don’t think I ever have any luck to begin with.”

“Of course you do. You met me.”

“Q—don’t act arrogant. It doesn’t really suit you.”)

* * *

 

It all happened too quickly to properly recount.

Molly had been in MI6’s quartermaster base again—either because they valued her input when it came to medicine or because she was uncannily gifted in fetching crisps. It was nothing out of the ordinary—the programmers were plugged in wholeheartedly to their projects and Q was heading the table, following Agent 007 through a mission in Mombasa. Things were going smoothly—no one was dead for her to perform autopsy on, or whatever it was they wanted out of her that she was not legally qualified for, nothing was exploding, London wasn’t falling apart, Mrs. Hudson has yet to move out of the city.

Then, like firecrackers, or a shrapnel grenade, everything shattered and ripped the stillness apart.

Agent 007 was suddenly taken by an unsuspected third party. Connection was abruptly lost and there was no telling what had become of Agent 007. Suddenly it was like someone set fire to Q’s fuse and he was a semi-automatic, firing away orders to the rest of the team as he scoured the endless screens about the room for the agent.

“City cameras…traffic light surveillance…security watches…absolutely no sign of him, where the _hell_ is this man?”

At first Molly thought it was only a fluke in the technology—something malfunctioned and satellite was lost, which Q tersely replied that no, there was nothing _wrong_ with his equipment, unless Agent 007 had gone and tampered with it like an idiot beforehand.

But the stress was building, and Molly could only stand still and watch as Q searched wildly to pick up any signal from Agent 007. The whole headquarters was flurrying about, lost and tense at this unexpected turn. Hands became balmy with fear. Q’s teeth were clenched.

Agent found. Agent apprehended. Agent threatened. Agent cornered.

Q was shouting orders through the Bluetooth, connecting computers to computers to try to help Agent 007 several hundreds of miles away. Molly couldn’t tell what was happening except for what Q outwardly expressed here in London; if Agent 007 was in trouble, if he was being tortured for information, if he was about to die, she couldn’t tell. But Q heard it all, and the way his face paled and his fingers raced over the keys made it seem like not all was well.

“007,” Q said. “007, hold on, I will get you out of this. 007, stay with me, don’t you dare leave. Bond, I swear, you _must hold on_ —”

One and a half hours later, numbers flew past the screens. A thousand images that Molly couldn’t understand connected themselves into some coherent answer that made Q let out a breath of enormous relief. He spoke so quickly in his Bluetooth she could hardly catch a word before—with so much typing that could punch out ten pages of words in the timespan of ten seconds, the headquarters was suddenly bursting with cries of relief and joy, Q’s tensed shoulders slumped, and Molly found herself letting out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding.

Jesus, one of the agents was saying. Jesus, Mary, Mother of God.

Molly couldn’t tell if that was an exclamation or a prayer, if it made a difference.

Whilst the office seemed to crumble in released fear, with people covering their faces with their hands just to give themselves space to breathe and others thumping each other on the back in some form of embrace, Q silently straightened his back, set his laptop to sleep, and went to fix himself a cup of Earl Grey.

Q was still silent even after Agent 007 was flown back to London via helicopter and had his wounds attended to. He moved sharply, if not mechanically, as if he was on autopilot as he inspected Agent 007’s gadgets for any need of replacement or repair (the radio transmitter was reduced to a single scrap of metal). At first Molly passed it off as tiredness, but when he made himself a seventh cup of Earl Grey in the past hour and a half, she put a hand over the mouth of the cup before he could bring it to his lips.

“What?” said Q, blinking as if this was the first time he had laid eyes on a human hand before, now that it was literally right in front of his nose.

Molly wrapped her fingers around the rim of the cup and took it away from him.

“You don’t look okay,” she said. “You look—awful, really. Why?”

“That’s a little harsh,” said Q.

“I mean,” said Molly. “You rather do. Q—”

Q tried to take the cup again. Molly slid it further away from him on the table.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Pristinely,” he said.

“He’s okay—agent 007,” said Molly. “Q, he’s okay. _It’s_ okay.”

“I’m aware,” said Q.

“You did it, you helped him. You _rescued_ him. It’s okay.”

“I’m aware.”

“There’s nothing to be scared about.”

Q raised his eyes from the Earl Grey to her face. She fought the urge to step back.

“I see,” he said.

They stood silently, staring at each other, for a moment, before without breaking eye contact he reached further and took the Earl Grey right from underneath her hand.

“That third party abductor was just not exactly part of the plan,” said Q. “I don’t prefer things leaving my control.”

“Well, that’s silly,” Molly said. “Sorry—I mean—that’s just life. Isn’t it?”

“Doesn’t mean I prefer it,” said Q.

He rested against the edge of his desk, sipping at his tea quietly. The other programmers left in the room were plugged in entirely, ignoring the quiet conversation between them.

“You won’t sleep tonight if you keep drinking that,” said Molly.

“I haven’t slept at all. It’s perfectly normal.”

“No, it’s not.”

Q raised his eyebrows at his tea. Molly suddenly had the urge to hit him across the back of his head for the foolishness of it all, if it didn’t mean him going nose-first into a nearly-boiled cup.

“Do you get this distressed?” she said. “Every time there’s a mission?”

“Of course not,” said Q. “Only when it almost feels like there was nothing I could do.”

“But there was something you could do. And you did,” said Molly. “And it worked. Agent 007’s back, and alive, it worked.”

“My sense of relief has a slow reaction,” said Q.

“The other senses don’t,” said Molly. “Otherwise Agent 007 might not be where he is now.”

Q shook his head.

“Are you flattering me?” he said.

“What? No,” Molly said. “I’m being honest. I’m sure Agent 007 would feel the same.”

“Don’t give him so much credit,” said Q. “Anyway—he is very selective about who he trusts his life with.”

“I’d trust you with my life,” Molly said.

It felt so natural to say that she didn’t realize how heavy they must have sounded until Q lowered the half-drunk cup from his lips, lips parted wordlessly. She swallowed hard and bit her knuckle.

“Not to—not to put pressure on you or anything,” she said. “I mean to say—you’re not someone I wouldn’t _distrust_. Not trust. And I suppose I already do, if you and MI6 are our national security, so I already do whether I…do...or not. I—why don’t you stop me?”

“Stop you from what?”

“Rambling. Stop me when I’m bothering you.”

“Do I seem that easily bothered to you?”

Molly lowered her gaze. Q let his head fall back, his neck cricking from the tension of the rest of the day. He took in a breath.

“Strange,” said Q.

“What is?” said Molly.

“You, trusting me with your life,” said Q. “I just realized how much we talk about death, and this—this is the rare moment we talk about the very opposite.”

“Death is life,” said Molly. “I mean—it’s part of it.”

“Oh, I know. It’s giving me an ulcer after all these damn assignments.” He ran a hand through his dark curls. “A great deal of my life is spent trying to help others avoid death. I don’t think I have much of a life to speak of.”

“Well—that’s silly,” said Molly. If anything, anyone had more of a life than she did with her two cats and ITV reality shows, and the constant promise of solitude. “That’s a waste, if you don’t use your own life to—I don’t know—to live.”

“And how do I achieve that, now?” said Q.

“I don’t know,” Molly said. “Doing things just for what you care about, I suppose. Not—not life-and-death care about, that’s always stressful. But just—what’s delightful.”

“Delightful,” said Q.

“Yes,” said Molly. “I mean—out of the two of us, if we both have lives that are just always filled with dead people and dying, then how do we live?”

Q closed his eyes. He set his mug down on the desk behind him.

“What do you do, then?” said Q. “When you aren’t treating the sick and dying—or the dead. How do you take delight in life?”

Molly was almost embarrassed to answer, since she didn’t quite know what to tell him herself. She pressed her lips together in thought.

“I—take care of my cats?” she said. “I do that. I like to take walks. Not always in parks—they’re lovely, but I usually go straight from home to St. Bart’s and back and I don’t pass anything on my way, but walks themselves—well, they’re nice.”

“Go on.”

“Food markets. Especially Borough Market on Saturday mornings. They—I just like them a lot. The mushroom pate there is really—it’s good.”

“Ah,” said Q. “I’ve only been there once, actually.”

“Only once?”

“I don’t have a terrible amount of time off.”

“Well, _that’s_ terrible.”

Q laughed. “Isn’t it? What else?”

“You tell me now. What do you do?”

“I told you, I don’t have much time off.”

“Don’t tell me that. I know that isn’t true.”

Q rolled his eyes, but he smiled anyway.

“I like…rare bookshops. There’s a whole street of them near Covent Garden—one after the other, shops of rare and antique books.”

“Go on.”

“I like the pianos at St. Pancras. Sometimes I’ll play them myself. I like that they’re _there_ , for anyone.”

“That’s so lovely.”

“I like Scrabble.”

“Scrabble?” She tilted her head.

“My family used to play it every Sunday,” said Q.

This was the first time he mentioned them. Molly couldn’t hold back the smile. He had a family—or at one point did—and for some reason that made her happy.

“I’ve never played,” she said.

“What?” said Q. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I am. It was never anything I thought of playing.”

“Then I’ll have to change that.”

Molly laughed, abashed. “I don’t even know how to play.”

“Then I will teach you,” Q said.

She looked away. For a moment, she swore her heart skipped a beat.

“I’d like that,” she said. “Actually—I’d really like that.”

Q smiled. They stood quietly by the desk again, listless. The other agents in the room tapped away busily at their workspaces, indifferent to them. It was more a blessing than anything else.

“So,” said Q, “now that we’ve figured out how—when shall we start the living part?”

* * *

 

(“But once you put letters onto the board, you start running out.”

“That’s what the other tiles are for. For every letter you lose, you gain. You take it from this pile. But no peeking.”

“And what about these ones? They have no letters.”

“They’re gems, basically. If you have one, you can declare it any letter you’d like. It becomes what you want it to be, no questions asked.”

“What if I want it to be a G? How many points would it be worth?”

“As much as a normal G tile would, of course.”

“Any letter at all?”

“Any letter.”

“D?”

“Definitely.”

“U?”

“Undeniably.”

“What about Q?”

“Don’t tease, now.”)

* * *

 

It was night, the Thames River framed on each side with shy lights. The London Eye with its dimmed red and blue, and the House of Parliament a brassy gold at this time of the evening. Even in the darkness, Molly could still see the couple on the bridge from where she and Q stood on the bank. A man and a woman, and the dust that fell from their hands into the river.

She couldn’t help but cringe. The river Thames was not the cleanest nor the most spectacular of rivers in all the world. Tourists cruises streamed through it every day and as clean as it claimed to be, the constantly sieving mud beneath it never gave the impression. But at nine in the evening, when the sun has dimmed and the city takes its place, she might have just witnessed a scattering of ashes.

Q noticed too. He bent down closer to her ear, as if the couple could hear him from the bankside if he didn’t.

“Not the most spectacular resting places,” he said.

“At least rivers keep moving,” she said. “It won’t stay here, the ashes. It’ll flow into the ocean and go around the world.”

The couple stayed still for a long time. The man then wrapped his arms around the woman’s shoulders and she buried her face in his shoulder.

“That must have been their child,” said Molly.

“You think so?” said Q.

“I do,” said Molly. She lowered her voice. “Those poor parents.”

“I couldn’t imagine it,” Q said.

“Imagine what?”

“Imagining,” Q said. “I don’t suppose they watch the body burn. But when it happens, surely they would picture it. How it goes from their child to dust in a cardboard box.”

“More and more people prefer it now,” said Molly.

“Death trends,” said Q.

“Funeral fads,” said Molly.

The couple turned away, finally slowly making their way down the Golden Jubilee Bridge to the other bank. Molly couldn’t take her eyes away from their retreating backs. In just a few seconds she imagined giving birth to a child, raising the child, loving the child, and then cremating the child in not long enough time. It made her heart ache.

“I do wonder, sometimes,” said Q, “whether cremation or burial would be better.”

“Neither,” said Molly. “It means someone is dead.”

“But death is a natural process of life.”

“Not necessarily preferred.”

Q tutted her in good humour.

“People revere the bodies of dead people so much,” Q said.

“It’s heart-breaking, really,” said Molly.

“Why?”

“Because they love the person so much. They aren’t there anymore, of course—not in the body. But they’re so loved that people want to try to say goodbye, even if it isn’t real. They want one last chance, even if by then the dead couldn’t care less.”

“You really delight in when people are loved, don’t you?”

Molly blushed, and was thankful for the darkness.

“Do you have a preference?” said Q. “To be cremated or buried?”

“I don’t think so,” said Molly. “I mean—after all, I don’t have any way of objecting if I did, once it happened. I’m dead.”

“True,” said Q. “But you tend to have some sort of say when you’re alive.”

“I don’t think about my own very much,” said Molly. “I just think—I mean, I think of other’s. The last thing I want for anyone—myself or anyone else—is  for someone’s body to go to dust in the very place they died. In the very same position. Not moved a single centimetre. I don’t think—I couldn’t possibly want that.”

Q gave an ironic laugh. “But I thought it hardly mattered when you died.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Molly. “But then it’s not about a body. It’s about someone’s life, and time. I don’t like to think someone has been so forgotten and—and _uncared_ for that no one even thought to move the body. To bury it or to burn it, or even just to pull it aside. I don’t—I don’t like thinking of someone turning on their heeling and walking away, and not _caring_.”

She no longer felt silly, confessing these things to Q. Nor did she feel ashamed of having these thoughts, pointless or no. Because in the end, he listened regardless.

They walked silently. That was what they did often—walk aimlessly, without aim or reason, and finding old gardens or craft shops. Finding the homeless and the pigeon nests, the nostalgia shops and the street artists. Finding puzzles, piecing them together to try to find some meaning or direction in life, and laughing at themselves.

“You’re thinking something,” Molly said. “I see it in your face.”

“You see a good lot,” he said.

“I see it all the time,” Molly said. “When people don’t say anything, and think that no one notices.”

Q licked his lips, but he said nothing. She was gradually understanding him, more and more, but he was still his own enigma, a puzzle not completely laid bare to her. A fascinating mind that shared so quietly.

“If an agent in MI6 dies in a dangerous situation,” Molly said, “would someone come back later to bring back the body?”

“If there is a body to bring back,” Q said. “Sometimes the enemy might claim it first. Other times, there was nothing left to begin with.”

Molly nodded. Q looked to her.

“Not left behind, though,” said Q. “Maybe at the moment—if their partner has to run. But bodies aren’t lost. We always know a way to find them again—technology or politics. And they’re brought home. Almost always are. You don’t have to be afraid for them. MI6 is cold, but they will care—at least, at the very end.”

“Okay,” Molly said. “Okay.”

A group of tourists ahead of them were laughing giddily as they took snaps of themselves across the river of Big Ben and the House of Parliament. She could hear the Thames lap up the shallow sands, a gentle lull. She wondered where the ashes were now, if they were still swirling through the water or washed ashore. If the son—daughter—the lost—was content with this last goodbye.

“Molly,” he said.

Molly jolted at the sound of her name on someone else’s tongue. She looked up hastily.

“Yes?” she said.

“You have a large heart,” he said, “in a very cold world.”

A corner of Molly’s lips twitched upward.

“I’ve made it this far,” she said. “Does that—do I sound stupid to you? Perhaps I do. That’s fine. But that’s how I feel.”

“No,” said Q. “I don’t think that’s stupid at all.” He smiled nostalgically. “In fact, it puts me to shame.”

He let out a breath. Molly felt her heart skip a beat.

“You said you trusted me with your life,” Q said.

Molly jumped slightly at this sudden subject. She gave a short nod.

“Yes,” she said. She meant it.

Q closed his eyes. He smiled.

“Well,” he said. “I trust you with my death, Molly Hooper.”

Molly stammered. She didn’t know if she should feel honoured, relieved, or challenged. She didn’t know if this was déjà vu or a new change. She only knew this—she was okay with that. Truly.

“And I trust,” Molly said, “that you won’t have to depend on me anytime soon.”

Q laughed.

“Don’t worry,” said Q. “Not for a long time, God willing.”

“Good,” she said. “Good.”

They kept walking. The river flowed. Dust and sand were washed away, but to where God only knew.

* * *

 

(“But look—”

Q swiftly dealt five more letters onto the board, side by side with Molly’s carefully placed word.

“Look,” he said. “I spelt ‘binary,’ see?”

“Yes,” Molly said. “I see.”

“But see here—it also spells ‘in’ because my I is on top of your N. It spells ‘on’ with my N and your O. That’s three words here, just by my one word next to yours.”

“Does that count?”

“Of course it does. As long as they’re words, you keep making more and more. Sometimes when you don’t even realize it, there’s a word to be spelt. Words beget words. It’s practically never-ending.”

His eyes shone. She knew there was something more poignant to this. She just couldn’t put her finger on what yet.)

* * *

 

Q had gone back to the MI6 headquarters to be killed.

He was supposed to meet Molly at St. James’ Park. That was what they had agreed on earlier. Six thirty, sharp, when the spring sun was still generous with its light. She had gotten out of work early, and took the Circle line directly to the flower-strewn gardens. She waited for him by the blossoming trees.

By five forty-five, she figured she needn’t have come so early after all. By five fifty-three, she tried to reason whether he was the type to arrive early, precisely on time, or late. By six o’one, he sent her a text message.

_Left my oyster card on my desk. Will be late._

She could picture it now. Q heading toward the tube station, only to feel his pockets and find his oyster card missing. He’d retrace his steps, thinking maybe he dropped it on the way here, before remembering he left it next to his mug on his desk, or in a drawer, or on his chair. He would have texted her as he walked back, and expected to be at most twenty-five minutes late. They would have caught up on this clear day, and lived.

By six thirty-seven, she tried to call him and got no answer. By seven, she gave up waiting.

By eleven in the evening, when the news channel was turned on in her flat, she found out about the attack on MI6.

Infiltration, said the BBC News. A sudden attack on the head of England’s national security. Commenced approximately six ten at MI6’s station. Explosions were rigged, and guns were fired. Seven dead, forty wounded. The guilty party has been apprehended. 

They said no names. She crawled on her couch and pulled the throw blanket over her head. She couldn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, Mycroft called on her. The moment she saw him on the other side of her door, she knew.

“If I may be frank,” Mycroft said. He stood by her window as she curled up in a ball at the corner of her couch, “it would have been a relatively painless death. He was shot right through the aorta.”

Aorta. Largest artery in the heart. Originating from the left ventricle of the heart and extending to the abdomen. Immediate death if punctured.

“He was twenty-seven,” Mycroft said. His hands were clasped behind his back, as if he was talking merely about current politics. “No spouse, no children. His property and possessions were returned to his parents. Otherwise, they cannot be informed of anything more.”

Distributes oxygenated blood throughout the entire body via systemic circulation. She had embalmed a heart before, separately from the rest of the body, which had been killed in trauma. As far as stab or bullet wounds would have gone, it wouldn’t have been hard to miss.

“Nor has he expressed in writing any specific preferences for the funeral or for the state of his body,” Mycroft said. “Naturally, we would consider what the parents favour, or the traditionally natural process.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s preferable,” Molly said.

Mycroft turned to her.

“Sorry?”

Molly let go of a breath. She wondered if she could feel her own blood flow through her aorta if she tried, just hard enough.

“Nothing,” she said.

Q smiled at her, from somewhere in the depths of her memory.

“But,” said Mycroft. “If we consider what was not in writing, I am under the impression that he—how did he put it—trusted you with his death.”

Molly felt her lips twist as she tried to hold back a cry. It resulted in her jaw twisting, and an ugly choked cough blocking her throat. She buried her face in her arms, and took deep breaths.

“Now,” Mycroft said. “What exactly do you think he meant by that?”

Molly swallowed hard before she choked out a cry. Mycroft said nothing as she screwed her face and buried it in her knees. Every time she thought she could catch her breath, she thought of long walks, of Scrabble tiles and cuppas, and she crumbled all over again.

“Do you want responsibility over this?” Mycroft said.

“I didn’t—” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her nose was completely congested; she could hardly speak. “I don’t even know his real name.”

“Well,” said Mycroft. “That hardly makes a difference now, does it?”

Molly clenched her teeth. She forced deep breaths through her nose, and tried not to think about how very alive Q was when she last saw him, only a week ago. How very alive he was then, when he said goodbye to her at Hyde Park corner, and how very dead he was supposed to be now, with nothing but Mycroft’s word to take.

“It would be unwise for you to attend any funeral services that his parents may have for him,” said Mycroft. “As your association with him stemmed from MI6.”

“I wasn’t his colleague that he did secret missions with,” Molly said. “I was his _friend_.”

“It may breach national security,” said Mycroft.

Molly pressed a hand to her shaking lips. She had hardly said goodbye to Q for the last time—she was running late to catch the bus, and she could only give a half-wave over her shoulder before she ran inside one. She didn’t remember if she even looked him in the eyes when she said goodbye. If he even heard her.

And now there was no chance left. Locked in a casket, in a bunny suit or a clown suit, whatever the hell there could be, she wouldn’t know. Unburied at all. She would never know, never see for herself. And even if she tried to find him afterward, find his grave in a cemetery long after the funeral service was over and she had a private moment to say goodbye herself, she wouldn’t know where to look for him. She didn’t know his name.

“Wait,” she said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“Wait,” she said. She was losing her voice. “He trusted me with his death. Then let me honour that.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” said Mycroft.

Molly raised her chin. Her heart pounded.

“Take me to his body,” she said. “He’s with MI6 and their own morgue, isn’t he?” Her voice shook, but she didn’t back down. “Take me there.”

Mycroft eyed her carefully before sighing heavily.

“I expected more of you, Ms. Hooper,” said Mycroft. “I thought you of all people would understand that death was a natural process of life.”

“I do,” Molly said. “So is this.”

So was grief.

The drive to MI6 was silent. The headquarters themselves were still heavily roped off and secured, parts still heavily damaged from the attack. It wasn’t terribly silent—death struck them at their heart, but MI6 could not stop to hurt or to grieve when the rest of the world moved on. But it was still colder than usual, with grave faces and thin voices. Doors snapped shut immediately before Molly could come close to them as she passed.

“Be quick about it,” Mycroft said.

The lab was just as she had left it—pristine, cold, clean. They had already taken Q’s body out for her, a sheet covering him up to his shoulders. This wasn’t supposed to be anything new to Molly—she had friends from her neighbourhood, her old colleagues, even people she remembered passing on the street stretched out on the table before her. Q wasn’t supposed to be anything new.

But her legs shook when she stepped near. He looked different without his glasses; it made him somehow look older without the boyish lenses. His face had already been shaven clean for him, and if there was blood then it did not seep through the cloth anymore. He was so still. His face was so still. Those eyebrows that would quirk with a thought she didn’t know or those lips that smiled at the memory of something he wouldn’t say were so still, and those one thousand and one thoughts that she saw pass by and were kept secret from her were gone, emptied. He kept it a mystery, and now she would never know.

The door snapped shut behind Mycroft as he left. Molly let out a breath.

She ran a hand over his shoulders. He was cold. She bumped into the table; embalming equipment clattered on the floor. She cried—this was nothing new.

 _I trust you with my death_.

Mycroft must think that Q meant the preserving of his body. To embalm it in preparation for a funeral. To preserve it so that it would not fall apart before he was buried. There was a heavy lab coat folded up for her on the counter, and the equipment was self-evident.

Like a cuppa.

Molly brushed his hair from his forehead. In life, it may have tickled him. Now, he was absolutely still.

She gently ran her hand over his face, down his neck. On the cloth, over his arms, his lean torso. She willed herself not to feel for the bullet wound. She felt his hand and wrist under the cloth, hands that warmed themselves on a cup of coffee and played the pianos at St. Pancras. The shoulders that sloped delicately and shook when he laughed. The sharp knee that bent and stretched when he walked with her, miles and miles, and never turned away to leave her, until this. She was embalming him with her mind, preserving him in her memory, preserving his life in her recollections. Because before he was dead, he was alive, and she cared for him. He was cared for.

“Q,” she said. Her voice wobbled. She let it. She was not ashamed. “Q.”

 _My friend, my dear friend_.

Maybe, when MI6 turned a blind eye to her, she could seek out his parents. Maybe she could sit them down and say, yes, your son was cared for by me too. By many. She could share memories with them, and swap stories for stories. The preserving would continue—and unlike embalming, he would continue to live.

Soft laughter and pensive silence.

Scrabble tiles and mugs of Earl Grey.

Dust settling in water.

 _My dear friend, goodbye_.

She closed the door behind her.

* * *

(Q lifted his eyes to her. They glinted with eagerness. He pinched the blank tile between his fingers, that which could be anything until the time came to know.

“So,” he said. “Shall we begin?”)

 


End file.
